


It's Not You, and It's Not Me

by RealityBetterThanFiction



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, Game of Thrones Cameos, Hand Jobs, Implied homophobia, M/M, Mentioned violence, Mentions of Death, Mentions of War, Oral Sex, Smut, ghost - Freeform, hidden identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RealityBetterThanFiction/pseuds/RealityBetterThanFiction
Summary: “You’re not like any Wildling I’ve ever met,” Harry said before he swung up into the saddle behind Lou. His thigh’s bracketed Lou’s hips, and he tried not to think about his lack of experience and how he had always wondered about changing it.Lou chuckled, picking up the reins and kicking them off into an easy trot like a well trained rider. “And you’re not like any North man I’ve ever met.”“Quite a pair,” Harry found himself saying once more.Lou leaned back in the saddle, pressing into Harry’s chest as they slowly navigated through the dark forest.“Quite,” Lou returned again.With Lou at his front and Ghost - true to his name - trailing just out of sight ahead of them, Harry found that the forest didn’t seem as foreboding as it had been before. Wolfswood might not claim his life tonight, but he wasn’t so sure the same could be said for the man sharing his saddle.---Harry Snow, bastard son of Lord Ned Stark, meets an intriguing stranger on a midnight ride near Winterfell. Can their connection last in a world ruled by lions, and dragons, and wolves?





	It's Not You, and It's Not Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myownspark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspark/gifts).



> This piece was written for 31 Days of Smut Cocktoberfest with the prompt word ghost.
> 
> Hopefully there are some fellow Game of Thrones fans out there who will enjoy seeing our favorite boys dropped into this verse! If you know the show and books, this is set near the end of Season 1. I've tried to put in enough detail that if you haven't seen the show, it should still make sense. Any questions, feel free to come find me on tumblr after reveals! I would love nothing more than chatting 1D and Game of Thrones!
> 
> Big thanks to the lovely moderators for setting this up! This is my second year participating, and it's always a pleasure working with them. It's so awesome to have new fantastic fics to read every day of the month!
> 
> Also, tremendous thanks goes to my beta (aka Hand of the Queen) Cynthia (myownspark) who this fic will eventually be dedicated to after authors are revealed. Her support and inspiration helped shape this entire story, and I am so grateful to have gone through two weeks of madness writing it with and for her.

The bite of the night air stung the lone rider’s face like a slap as his horse pounded furiously through the snarling underbrush. His breaths came out in frosty puffs, panting as hard as his beast against the strain of exertion, against the adrenaline. Even his cloak with its thick fur mantle was no match for the North’s ire. It kept out the snow, but did little to defend against the bone deep cold that relentlessly set in at summer’s end.

This deep in the forest, the darkness had a way of swallowing one whole, cutting the senses one by one until there was nothing left to do but surrender. Wolfswood was dangerous enough in daylight, but in the shadow of night she was practically impregnable, a vicious bitch that had claimed the lives of even the bravest Northmen who had tried to tame her. Even still, as dangerous as she was, there was always something worse lurking in wait for the next cocksure fool who thought it wise to test these lands on his own.

As Father always reminded the Stark children...winter was coming. It was the same saying Harry had heard nearly every day of his life since being brought to Winterfell as Lord Ned Stark’s bastard. One would think after such repetition Harry might be a bit more cautious when it came to embarking on midnight rides through the heart of the most dangerous terrain in Westeros. Then again, there were all types of danger. If it wasn’t the cold to kill him, it would be something else. He was hoping to avoid finding out what other possibilities could end his life, especially tonight. But Harry was only half Stark. A bastard named Snow. And apparently the proclivity to heed such warnings about winter had surprisingly not been passed on through the Stark half of his blood.

What had been passed down was the same stubborn heroism that had led his half brother Robb south to fight for the family name and their father’s freedom. It had been a swift uprising of nearly the entire North when word had reached Winterfell that their patriarch had been betrayed and imprisoned, with young Sansa Stark under the crown’s lethal control and little Arya Stark missing. Harry had wanted to fight, pleading with Robb to journey south as part of the North’s army. But Robb had other plans for him.

“A Stark needs to be in Winterfell,” Robb had said.

“But I’m not a Stark,” Harry argued, already dressed for battle. 

Robb had put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, a lifetime of commiseration but never true understanding darkening his expression. “No. But Bran is, and he needs you. Our people trust you. Help him, Harry. Protect him. And Rickon. And our home.”

Harry had been powerless to refuse the order. His family needed him, so in Winterfell he would stay. But since he was unable to bury his sword in the nearest man wearing Lannister red, that paragon virtue had needed other outlets for expression. As good as his intentions were, living like a hero didn’t always mean one would die like a hero. Harry’s heedless actions tonight might just prove that to be true.

The snowfall around him was silent, only broken by the steady cadence of hoof beats, a pair of labored breaths, and the distant howl of a wolf.

Ghost, Harry's red-eyed direwolf, was on the hunt. And Harry - the likely next cocksure fool to be claimed by the forest - was hot on his trail. There would be no honor for the hero who died in a snowdrift if whatever had Ghost taking on the Wolfswood at night turned out to be nothing but a quest to fill his belly with elk or bear meat.

It had only been an hour ago, just after midnight, that Harry had been woken from a sound sleep by scratching at his door. He had pulled his fur throw around his body and padded to the door across the icy stone floor to let Ghost into his bed chambers. Ghost hadn’t wanted to come in. He had wanted Harry to come out, and wouldn’t stop crying and whining until Harry dressed and followed him down to the stables. From there it had been a game of chase, with Harry desperately trying to run down his usually well behaved direwolf.

Ghost never did things like this, which was why Harry was so steadfast in his pursuit. Ghost’s desperation meant it was important. After years together, Harry trusted his direwolf unfailingly. Ghost would never put him in harm’s way. Harry had to believe he was out here for a reason.

His thoughts were interrupted by a series of quick yapping barks to his left. He drew up the reins and stopped his horse. It let out a whinny of protest before turning in the direction of Ghost’s call. They moved slowly now, branches crunching quietly as Harry tried to see into the blackness of their surroundings. His eyes strained, unable to detect anything until suddenly the moon cut through the canopy just so and fell upon the snow-white coat of his direwolf a few yards ahead. A pair of blood red eyes watched as Harry approached.

“Ghost?” Harry called tentatively.

The direwolf looked back down towards the base of the weirwood tree, drawing Harry’s attention to what was slumped against its trunk. Ghost let out a whine and laid down next to the pile of furs, curling his body around it.

Harry dismounted his horse swiftly and cautiously approached, hand on the hilt of his sword. These were dangerous times. Not so long ago, attempts on even young, crippled Bran’s life had been made, right in his very own chambers. Harry was certainly giving any hopeful enemies an unparalleled opportunity to slice off another branch of the Stark family tree.

When Harry stood beside the base of the old tree, he knelt down next to his direwolf, running a hand over where his pale fur met the dark fur of whatever wounded creature Ghost was protecting. It was only then that Harry saw the pair of boots sticking out from beneath the edge of the furs, and that the entire pile was subtly shaking, small tremors that caused the fur to shudder in the wind. 

With a shaking hand of his own, Harry reached out and drew back the edge of the fur. What he found beneath caused him to gasp. 

It was said that weirwood trees were sacred relics of the old religion that was practiced in the North. The Children of the Forest carved faces into the Heart Trees, their eyes weeping the red sap from their cores. Looking down at the face of the man slumped against the ancient tree, Harry’s faith was restored. Only the Old Gods could craft a visage so beautiful in its delicate perfection.

In this temperature, it was madness to expose any more flesh than necessary, but Harry had to touch the face to be sure it was real. He removed his riding glove, wanting to feel with his bare skin, and reached a hand out to cup a sharp cheekbone made even more razor edged by likely weeks of deprivation.

Harry had only a moment to enjoy the softness of skin before an icy steel edge, as sharp as the man’s cheekbones, was pressed to his throat.

“Move along,” a voice hissed, surprisingly steady for how much its owner was shivering.

Harry couldn’t think. He couldn’t even move. With his hand still pressed to cold skin and a blade at his throat, he could do nothing but blink down at the ice blue eyes filled with too much rage for such an ethereal face. But maybe that was why it was so arresting.

Ghost whimpered, curling closer to the man. The gloved hand that wasn’t holding the blade at Harry’s pulse point was tangled gently into the thick fur at the direwolf’s scruff, petting soothingly. Another dichotomy.

“It’s cold,” Harry finally murmured dumbly. Even that motion had his adam’s apple bobbing painfully under the blade. Harry wondered if blood had been drawn yet. He wondered if the man holding the blade would even care if Harry’s blood was spilled. Maybe he even wanted to spill it.

Teeth chattered before the man spoke again. “Hence me furs."

His accent was thick, nothing Harry was used to hearing of the bannerman his father entertained in the Great Hall at Winterfell. It was not of the South either, lacking the refinement though certainly not the pretension. That left only one alternative.

“What are you doing this far south of the Wall?” Harry dared to ask the Wildling. He hadn’t met many Free Folk in his young life. They didn’t usually make it this far south, especially not in such unforgiving conditions. But not a single one of them that Harry had encountered had looked like _this._

“Unless you want t’ see how fast blood freezes in this weather.... _move along_ ,” the man repeated. "And drop your bloody hand."  

Harry was about to do his bidding, but then he realized that this was _his_ land...his _family’s_ land. He was not the intruder here, and men of Winterfell were not kind to those who tried to claim what did not belong to them. The weather wasn’t the only thing unforgiving in the North. 

Harry calculated the risk quickly, taking into account all the factors of battle as he always did before the first swing of his blade. In one-on-one, Harry rarely lost. He was a practiced student of the sword, devoting hours of time to learning its craft and strategy. Against a foe like the one before him, victory was certain.

It happened quickly. One minute, the man’s blade was at Harry’s carotid. The next it was lodged into the trunk of the tree, with Harry pinning the man to the ground, both his frail wrists locked over his head in one of Harry’s hands. Ghost snarled beside them, front head bowed down and ears tucked back while he stripped his teeth. Harry wasn’t quite sure who Ghost was warning off, but once again he counted on Ghost’s lifelong allegiance.

The man struggled beneath Harry, using every bit of his depleted strength to get himself free. But Harry was larger, stronger, and hadn’t just had the same misfortune of a long journey in the cold without adequate sustenance.

The man realized this in short order and stopped the struggle. It didn’t, however, dampen the fight in his eyes.

“What do you want from me?” he growled. “I haven’t got any money or supplies. I’ve only this blade to me name, which is nothin’ compared to what you’ve got strapped to yer belt. If it’s pleasure you’re after, ‘m afraid it’s far too cold out for you to get yer cock up.” He punctuated that by a last ditch effort to move Harry from over him with a surprisingly strong thrust of his hips. Harry dropped his weight fully over the man’s pelvis and tried not to think about their compromising position. The words had been delivered with biting force, but Harry saw the hint of fear hiding beneath the bravado. The tremor in his lip was from more than the cold.

“I don’t want _anything_ from you,” Harry told him emphatically. “And I won’t hurt you. I just want to know what you’re doing on my lands.”

The man assessed Harry with those iridescent eyes, glowing the same way Ghost’s did in the scarce moonlight. He took in Harry’s face, his fur mantle, leather straps crossed over the chest. The Stark sigil was pinned to the leather, a wolf with its teeth bared.

Harry’s own wolf was still quietly growling, snapping at the wind every so often. 

“I’m lookin’ for somewhere safe. Not many places ‘round here that will take in someone...like me.”

Harry didn’t think that was quite the truth. A man who looked like him would have no trouble finding a warm bed should he want it. The cost, however, might not be something he was willing to pay. Maybe that was the reason behind the fear. Harry didn’t want to think about what this boy might have had to surrender in exchange for even the most basic human needs. His slight frame, parched lips and frost encrusted fringe showed those needs hadn’t recently been met.

Harry had an overwhelming and sudden urge to change that.

“I can take you somewhere safe,” Harry told him softly. 

“Nothin’ comes for free,” the man told him with narrowed eyes. “What do you want for it?”

Harry closed his eyes, probably not a wise choice in current company. But the man’s only dagger was embedded in bark, a bit of red sap seeping down from the wounded wood. Harry could feel the man’s hands shaking beneath his gloved palm.

“A name.” 

“Whose?” 

“Yours...preferably,” Harry answered, knowing the chances of getting the real one were slight. But there was hope. Harry always had hope. Even when he shouldn’t. Even when he might die for it.

The man considered, eyes darting back and forth between Harry’s own green ones.

“Lou, m’name’s Lou.”

Harry tested it, liking the foreign way it curled his tongue. “Lou.” 

“And do I get t’ know the name of me captor?” Lou haughtily asked. 

Harry smiled. “I’m not your captor.”

Lou rolled his eyes. “My _savior_ , then,” he mocked.

Harry’s smile faded. “I’m not that either.” He didn’t know if he could save this man. It might be too late for that. But some water, food that wasn’t spoilt, and a warm bed...Harry could give him that. 

“So then what should I call you?”

“Harry.”

Lou raised a brow. “ _Just_ Harry?”

“Are you _just_ Lou?” Harry countered.

Lou smirked. “No one is _just_ anyone. We all come from somewhere. Even if we’d like to forget where that is sometimes.”

“Snow,” Harry admitted. “Harry Snow. I haven’t forgotten where I’ve come from, even if it has forgotten me.”

Lou nodded once, no longer smirking. “Yes. Bastards are often forgotten, aren’t they?”

It was the one thing in life that still needled Harry, still had him rising to the fight and damning his righteous reserve. But from Lou’s lips, it wasn’t delivered with superiority. It was given with something sounding like solidarity. It was surprising, though, that this Wildling would know Snow to be the surname given to Northern bastards, the brand that Harry had been forced to live with his entire life. It wasn’t the type of cohort of which anyone wanted to be a part.

“A Wildling versed in the customs of civilized culture,” Harry dared.

“And a Northerner stupid enough not to slice ’is sword through a Wildling on sight.”

Harry chuckled. “Quite a pair.”

“Quite. Now are you gettin’ off me any time soon? I told you, too cold for yer little cock to come out ‘n play.” Harry let out a growl when Lou thrusted his hips again and tightened his grip on Lou’s wrists in warning.

Harry grit his teeth, trying not to pout. “It’s not little.”

Lou just seemed amused. “Maybe not. But somethin’ tells me even if it were big as a tree trunk, you wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

With another thrust, Lou was able to free one of his wrists. That hand immediately darted down and snaked between their bodies until he had a grip on Harry’s crotch.

“Stop. Now,” Harry barked, trying not to sound panicky.

“Hm. Maybe not so little,” Lou remarked, clever fingers twisting over the heavy fabric of Harry’s trousers. “But still...inexperienced by my guess.”

And that...that was the truth. Unlike his older brother Robb, Harry hadn’t been graced with having a smooth way with women...or men, as he wasn’t limited in his desires. He was quiet and brooding, in the kind of way that may have garnered looks, but never with attention held long enough when it was clear that intimacy meant more to him than an isolated roll beneath the furs. He didn’t frequent the brothels at The Smoking Log in Winter Town like many of his compatriots. He prefered practice with a steel sword, not the one made of flesh.

It also wasn’t desirable for a woman of any merit to tie herself to a bastard. The surname Snow wasn’t something anyone wanted to pass down to offspring. And men weren't interested enough in a lowly bastard prince to risk the looks they would get from their peers when they chose bed company with the same parts as they had. Things in the North were not as progressive as they were in other parts of Westeros.

So that left Harry without much practical experience in courting, as this stranger had inexplicably and frustratingly guessed without much effort.

“You don’t really wish me to prove you wrong,” Harry waged, hoping to sound convincing. It worked, at least long enough to free Harry’s cock from Lou’s grip.

Lou settled back against the ground. “No. I don’t. So in that case. A truce?”

Harry chewed on his lip. Truce with this one wasn’t likely to last, but it didn’t really have to. Just long enough to see him fed, bathed, and well rested enough to be out on his way again. They could probably be civil for that long.

Harry released Lou’s other wrist and then pushed himself up to standing. He reached a hand down immediately and helped Lou clamber up as well. Only then did he realize just how differently they were built. Harry was taller, broader, even with the hulking pile of ragged furs Lou was wearing. Where Lou’s limbs were delicate and reedy, Harry’s were long and sinewy. A man so slight would never survive in the wild world beyond the Wall, which made it all the more surprising that he had not only survived, but had scaled all 700 feet of the icy Wall somehow and made it this far south all on his own.

That thought had Harry suddenly locking up, Lou’s hand still in his own.

Harry’s head turned sharply, looking all around their little patch of trees. He listened attentively, but there were no sounds besides those of the forest.

“You’re alone?” he asked.

“Aye?” Lou answered, seemingly confused.

Harry wasn’t sure if he should trust that, if he should turn his back, just to end up the victim of a Wildling siege. Harry looked down at Ghost, now calmly sitting next to him.

“Go,” he told the direwolf, sending him off in surveil. Ghost complied quickly.

“Scared?” Lou asked, watching this transpire with interest.

“Smart,” Harry retorted. “Your word isn’t worth anything yet.”

“You wound me,” Lou said, holding a hand to his breast.

“We’ve just met,” Harry told him.

“And yet you’re offerin’ me a place to stay with the only price bein’ a name. Does that seem smart to you?”

“I guess we’ll see.”

“I guess we will.”

Ghost returned from his quick trip around the nearby woods, trotting back to Harry’s side. Harry dropped a hand to the place between his ears and scratched. “Good boy.”

“Convinced?” Lou asked.

“For the time being. Now, let’s go. It’s cold. And I need an ale.”

Lou smacked his chapped lips. “Ale. That does sound good.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Who says you’re getting any?” 

“Common courtesy. Or is this ‘civilized culture’ you speak about all nothin’ but shite?”

Lou squeezing his hand suddenly reminded him that they were still holding hands. Harry immediately dropped his grip, burying his fists beneath his cloak.

“Men of the North are respectable,” Harry told Lou as they began to walk towards Harry’s horse. 

Lou nodded. “As are Wildlings.” When Harry frowned over at Lou, he was quick to add, “We just believe that it’s something to be earned, not commanded.”

“Fair,” Harry told him truthfully, surprised as he was. “In that case, I hope to earn yours.”

“A good start would be giving me a hand up onto that massive horse of yours,” Lou said, pointing his chin in the direction of Harry’s stallion.

“Who says you get to ride?” he asked.

“Off to a good start on earnin’ respect, I see.”

Harry smiled, reaching one hand up to steady the saddle while the other reached out to give Lou an arm. Lou put his foot in the saddle, ignoring Harry’s offer of aid, and swung effortlessly up into the mount.

“Thought you needed a hand?”

Lou smirked again, lips curving into a bow. “Never said that. Just said that respect would warrant it offered. Are you comin' up?”

Harry looked up at the vexing man in his horse’s saddle, looking for all the world as if he belonged there.

“You’re not like any Wildling I’ve ever met,” Harry said before he swung up into the saddle behind Lou. His thigh’s bracketed Lou’s hips, and he tried not to think about his lack of experience and how he had always wondered about changing it. With his manhood pressed where human nature demanded it belonged, those curiosities only grew. Thankfully it wasn’t a long ride back to Winterfell.

Lou chuckled, picking up the reins and kicking them off into an easy trot like a well trained rider. “And you’re not like any Northerner I’ve ever met.”

“Quite a pair,” Harry found himself saying once more. 

Lou leaned back in the saddle, pressing into Harry’s chest as they slowly navigated through the dark forest.

“Quite,” Lou returned again.

With Lou at his front and Ghost - true to his name - trailing just out of sight ahead of them, Harry found that the forest didn’t seem as foreboding as it had been before. Wolfswood might not claim his life tonight, but he wasn’t so sure the same could be said for the man sharing his saddle.

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

By the time they got back to Winterfell, the sky was just starting to lighten in the east. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour, but it would be more than enough time for them to sneak back within the walls of the castle and find somewhere for Lou to hide before anyone could question Harry about his new companion.

Lou had chattered for most of the ride back to the castle, an incessant stream of sharp little comments about his superior opinions of Harry or the North in general. Harry had tuned him out eventually, instead focusing on listening to the sounds of his beloved homeland. But when they had arrived at the outskirts of Winterfell, Lou had gone silent, taking it all in.

Harry was used to its grandeur, the tall stone wall and circular towers rising above it. The red leaves of the Heart Tree in the Godswood could be seen from here, but that wouldn’t be something unfamiliar to Free Folk. They too worshiped the Old Gods, probably one of the only things that tied them to those who resided south of the Wall.

Seeing the castle from the perspective of an outsider made Harry pause to really _look_ at it for the first time in longer than he remembered. It was an intimidating place. For as wild and uncharted as the North could be, this was very much a statement to the opposite. Winterfell was strong. Safe. Everlasting. But it was also home.

He’d grown up here, knowing nothing else. He’d run through the courtyard, found solace in the crypt, tended to the horses in the stables, climbed the tower to the First Keep, learned to fight in the armory training paddock, prayed beside the springs in the Godswood. He had grown into a man within the safety of its walls, even as he sometimes felt trapped by those very same walls. It had always been his life’s ambition to ride north and join the Night’s Watch at Castle Black, in search of that freedom he so desperately desired, but it was going to be harder than he could imagine leaving this place. Especially now.

“It doesn’t look like there’s any way to get in that isn’t heavily guarded,” Lou commented after a long moment stopped on the hill near the hunter’s gate. It was the truth, every gate was guarded by manned battlements, arrows at the ready. But there were always other means.

Harry shrugged. “There are if you know where to look. We’ll have to go on foot.”

He slipped off the horse, and then as to avoid another biting remark about his decorum, lent Lou a hand to assist him off the horse. Of course Lou didn’t take it, but he did smile knowingly at its offer.

Lou reached up and patted the horse’s neck. “What about ‘im?”

Harry let out a low whistle, and like a spectre emerging from the fog, Ghost appeared at their sides. “Take him in,” he told the direwolf, handing over the reins. The wolf took them gingerly between his teeth and led the horse towards the hunter’s gate.

“Beyond the Wall, a wolf would never treat prey so tenderly,” Lou remarked, watching the wolf and the horse with open curiosity.

“A wolf only attacks when it’s hungry or when it’s threatened. Never for sport. Ghost is well fed, and there are no threats here.”

“What about if the wolf was confronted by a lion?” Lou asked.

 Harry chuckled. “We don’t have those around these parts. Maybe shadow cats. But not lions.”

“Are you sure?”

Harry chuckled. “Yes. You may be south of the Wall, Wildling, but you aren’t _that_ far south. The lions are in King’s Landing...at least in the proverbial sense.”

Lou probably had no idea who the Lannisters and their Lion sigil were if he had never been as far south as Winterfell. For that he was lucky. They were a treacherous bunch, headed by the indomitable Tywin Lannister. His children, Queen Cersei and her twin brother Ser Jamie, were just as blood-crazed. They had two younger siblings as well, Tyrion, better known as “The Imp,” and then the youngest that rarely left the Red Keep. Harry could never remember the youngest’s name, usually referred to as simply “The Lesser Lannister.”

Harry’s father had been close with the late King Robert Baratheon and had been asked to be his Hand. He had left for King’s Landing a few months ago with Sansa and Arya in tow, but even the noble Ned Stark had been unable to stop the following months of bloodshed and chaos. With King Robert suddenly dead after a hunting accident that was likely no accident at all, his monstrous son Joffrey had ascended the throne, putting the Lannisters in rule with Tywin named the new Hand. Ned had been thrown into the cells beneath the Red Keep and branded a traitor for supposedly trying to question Joffrey’s reign. Upon word of this, Robb had called Winterfell’s bannermen, and the northern fleet had travelled south to deal with the Lannister infection of the Realms. From there it had been a gruesome battle with many lives lost.

The North was staying strong, yet the war was far from over. But alas, Harry’s role was here, as frustrating as it may be at times. He was to help Bran - the remaining eldest Stark and prince of Winterfell - lord over the castle in their mother, Catelyn’s, absence, for she too had travelled south to aid the campaign. It was a job made more difficult by Bran’s recent injury and disablement, another crime committed by the wretched Lannisters. Harry was set on trying to help Bran see beyond his physical shortcomings. He was a bright boy, capable of so much. He just needed his big brother’s support, which Harry was all too happy to give. Although Harry’s tasks were more removed from battle, it still didn’t stop Harry from dreaming of letting the blood from every last one in the Lannister line for what they had done to his family.

Harry wondered, then, at Lou’s family. If he had one beyond the Wall. If they might miss him. If they too, would wage war on his behalf. He wanted to ask, but that was probably best to leave for later. They had very little time left shrouded in darkness to sneak within the walls of Winterfell. There could be more talk once Lou was clean, fed, and had time to rest. As it were, he looked moments from slipping into sleep now, and Harry’s late night adventures had left him tired as well.

“Follow me. And if you value your life, stay quiet,” Harry warned him, leading them around to the side of the outer perimeter near the Godswood. From there, he approached the stone wall in a quick dash and tracked along its surface with swift steps. Lou was right behind him, matching his pace. Harry found what he was looking for by running his fingers along the wall, feeling for the one stone that didn’t match the others. Beneath it lay a secret entrance to the castle that would lead them right into the crypt. Harry brushed off the underbrush that covered the wooden hatch on the ground and after a quick check up to the battlements to be sure they weren’t seen, hefted it up.

“Go on. In,” Harry grunted, holding the heavy door. Lou scurried inside and down the steps. Harry lowered himself down, and then closed the hatch above him slowly and quietly until all the light from outside was extinguished.

It was pitch black, even darker than the forest had been, but Harry didn’t need light to see. Just as he had done along the wall, he knew his way by touch...by memory. One hand brushed along the wall of the passage and the other reached out and grabbed hold of Lou’s wrist, leading him forward.

“This way. It’s alright,” Harry whispered.

Lou was breathing heavily, whether out of nerves or exertion, Harry wasn’t sure. It was a few minutes of walking in the dark before any kind of light could be seen. The candles in the crypt softly illuminated their path as the moon had done where the trees cleared. When he looked back at Lou, now able to see him again, the flickering light catching over the planes of his face stopped Harry for a moment.

Lou’s eyes were wide, taking in the statues and crypts that held the bones of Harry’s ancestors. This deep in the bowels of the crypt lay the oldest of Starks, their burial tombs primitive and simple. As they made their way further, the Starks of more recent memory rested. Harry prayed that the ongoing war would not leave more bodies to fill the crypt. He didn’t want to have to light more candles in remembrance of lives lost far too soon.

Harry took a moment to stop at the tomb of his Aunt Lyanna, only seventeen short years in rest. Stood before her tomb was a fastidiously carved statue of the woman herself, a time proven testament to her beauty. She was said to have been the most exquisite creature in all of Westeros, as smart and compassionate as she was fair-faced. It was no wonder that she had caught the eye of more than one suitor. Unfortunately one of those suitors was the infamous Rhaegar Targaryen, son of the Mad King and prince of Dragonstone. When Lyanna was promised to Robert Baratheon, Rhaegar had taken a page from his father’s book and kidnapped the girl. It had been the start of Robert’s Rebellion, eventually ending in the murder of the Mad King at none other than Ser Jamie Lannister’s hand, forever branding him the Kingslayer. The installment of Robert on the throne shortly followed, with Cersei Lannister at his side instead of his beloved Lyanna.

Harry often wondered how different things would be in Westeros if Lyanna hadn’t been ripped from the arms of her true love and family. Then again, her death had been the spark needed to overthrow the demented reign of the barbaristic Targaryens. Harry had spent many hours as a young boy hiding down in the crypts when life in Winterfell was too much for the resident bastard. He always found himself inexplicably drawn to Lyanna’s final resting place, reflecting on whether dying for _something_ was worth the pain of living with _nothing_.

Harry looked to Lou, who was studying Lyanna’s statue intently. Without thinking, Harry dropped his grip on Lou’s wrist and reached out to pluck a lone red weirwood leaf that had gotten caught in the haggard fur of Lou’s mantle. Harry usually brought a winter rose from the glass gardens when he came to visit his aunt, but this would have to do. He twirled the leaf in his fingers for a moment, studying its veins, before setting it down on the hand of Lyanna’s statue, where the dried up stems of all Harry’s other offerings were rotting.

“She has your face,” Lou commented, voice soft and reverent, though he had no reason to know why it should be.

“She’s my aunt. I carry her blood,” Harry told Lou. “At least the half that’s legitimate.”

“She looks like a goddess.”

 “No,” Harry mused, “She looks like a _queen_ , which is what she should have been. Instead we’ve got the current Lannister regime. No better than the Mad King.”

“I may not know much about the ways of things on this side of the Wall, but I do know those are dangerous accusations to make. Especially given the current state of your Stark lineage,” Lou replied, voice as sharp and cutting as the knife he had pressed to Harry’s throat. Harry had that knife tucked in his belt now to avoid any more run-ins with his flesh.

Harry frowned over at Lou. “What do you know about my lineage, Wildling?” 

Lou shrugged. “Travelers hear things. This traveler happened to ‘ave heard some whisperings ‘bout a certain ‘Young Wolf,’ black of hair with a massive grey beast, leadin’ an army ten thousand strong due south for the capital.”

Harry snorted righteously. “It’s more than ten thousand.”

Lou paused. “Really? And what does he plan to do with this patchwork army of farmers and smiths that fancy themselves warriors?”

“Avenge the North,” Harry told him with a sneer. “Avenge the Stark name.”

“Which is why you’re still here, hm?”

Harry’s head snapped in Lou’s direction, but the man wasn’t looking at him, eyes still on Lyanna’s peaceful stone face.

Lou reached a hand out to touch the figure, but Harry was quick to stop him with a curt, “Don’t.”

Lou’s hand halted in mid-air. He finally turned back to Harry. “Revenge is a stupid reason to take up swords when you don’t know the whole story of what you’re fightin’ for.”

“Says the one who slaughters innocents and brave men of the Night’s Watch for a pastime,” Harry shot back. He reached down and pulled Lou’s blade from his belt, throwing it down at the foot of the statue. It’s gold encrusted handle glittered in the firelight, but Harry didn’t notice it, eyes locked on Lou in a fierce meeting of gazes.

Lou reached down carefully, still eyeing Harry, and picked up the blade. Then, as Harry had done, made his own offering of steel to Lyanna’s outstretched stone hand. 

“We’re not so different, you and I. We both fight for our families. For honor. For belonging. Unfortunately only one side can win. And the warriors who fight hardest rarely get the credit they deserve. Especially when they don’t fight with swords.”

Harry blinked at Lou, perplexed by his words, even more so by the change in the cadence of his voice. “Who’s side are you on?” Harry finally asked.

Lou’s eyes darted out to the blade he had gifted to the statue, as if he were second guessing its placement. His hand fidgeted at his side, a sign of tension Harry did not miss.

“The side that keeps me alive. The side that keeps the ones I love alive.”

“And who would that be?”

Lou smirked and took a step closer. The hand that had previously fidgeted was steady as it reached up to toy with the edge of Harry’s mantle, tracing over the wolf sigil pin that held it together. “Why’dya ask?” His accent was thick again, words syrupy and saccharine like weirwood sap.

Harry stepped away from him. “Just wondering if there are going to be any Wildling hordes riding down to Winterfell in a half hearted attempt to free their brother.”

“Thought you said I wasn’t a captive.”

“You’re not. Unless you give me reason to change that.”

Lou looked at the knife again. “Me? Harmless, I am.” Another damned smirk.

“I doubt that. I’m betting you don’t need that blade to wage your wars.”

“Too right. You aren’t as stupid as I thought, bastard.”

Harry was done with the insults and double speak. He turned and led the way closer to the end of the tunnel leading out of the crypt. Over his shoulder he called, “If you don’t want to sleep with the corpses, I’d suggest you keep pace.”

Lou followed, but there was a satisfied bounce in his step that made Harry feel like he had lost this little battle.

They exited the crypt without much fanfare, as it wasn’t typically guarded. From there, Harry lead them easily through the well known shadows of Winterfell until they were in the Great Keep. It was strictly forbidden to allow outsiders into the Great Keep, especially at this hour, but there was nowhere else to take Lou that would be secluded enough. Harry could figure out what to do with him tomorrow. After he slept. Right now solving the dilemma he had gotten himself into with any type of sound logic was hopeless. Things would make more sense in the morning.

Harry bypassed the guard on duty at the doors to the Great Keep by entering through one of the lower windows along the back wall. It led into the kitchens, which would be empty this late at night. Perfect for absconding with a bit of food for a starved traveler.

The bread and cheese wasn’t much, but Lou was quick to inhale it, along with the glass of ale Harry offered before pouring one for himself. They sat by the open hearth, burning dully, until Lou had his fill. Then it was time to figure out where he would sleep.

“I think...Arya’s room,” Harry mused. It was next to Harry’s and unoccupied given that his youngest sister had traveled south with their father.

“Arya?”

“My sister,” Harry said softly, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. She had been his little shadow, always tagging along after him when he was training or riding. It had scared him when Father had brought such a lamb to the Lion’s den. It made him nauseous to think that she was now missing thanks to the uprising against the Starks. But if anyone could find a way out, it was Arya. She may look like a lamb...she was anything but. Harry prayed to the Old Gods that she and her little sword named Needle would return home one day. If not, Harry might have more vengeance to seek. For taking his beloved Arya, he would take their heads. All of their heads.

With the rest of the remaining Stark household sleeping, Harry led Lou up to Arya’s chambers. He opened the door to her bedroom, but dared not enter. He didn’t have the strength to deal with facing her vacant space tonight. It would be enough to know that it was occupied for at least one night. Even if only by a strange visitor with eyes as blue as a winter rose.

“In the morning, we’ll see about a bath,” Harry told him, looking at Lou’s threadbare clothing and dirt smudged face, “And we’ll figure out what to do with you.”

Lou huffed. “I don’t need supervision. I’m not a child. I can fend for myself.”

“Maybe beyond the Wall.”

“Reckon it’s more dangerous there.”

Harry hummed. “You’d be surprised.”

With nothing left to say, Harry nodded once to Lou and then closed the door. He hoped Lou would have the good sense to stay put until dawn. Harry would be unable to help him if he found himself faced with the small contingent of Winterfell’s soldiers tasked with protecting its walls. Anyone not loyal to the North would be put down without hesitation, and even though the Lannisters were now the top enemy, a Wildling was still no welcome friend.

With dragging feet, Harry trudged to his quarters. Inside, Ghost was already waiting for him. Harry stripped his cloak and leather armor the moment he closed his door, leaving it all in a messy pile. His boots were next, then his swords, although his smallest dagger was kept to be placed beneath his pillow.

When Harry fell into his bed, Ghost immediately hopped up onto the plush furs and curled up beside him. Harry sighed, wrapping himself in the blankets he had been pulled from hours earlier. He turned to Ghost.

“What are we going to do with him?” he asked his direwolf.

Ghost’s response was to nose against his shoulder, a small whine escaping his throat.

Harry pet the soft hair over his muzzle, soothing him, soothing himself.

He fell asleep that way, next to Ghost, with the ghost of wild blue eyes and dangerously curving lips playing in his mind.

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

Harry was relieved to find the Wildling just where he’d been left the next morning when Harry finally surfaced from his fitful sleep. Alternatively, in the light of day, Lou looked rested and even more desirable, if possible. Harry was reluctant to think about what more a bath and proper clothes would do to the Wildling’s appearance.

“Better’n leaves and dirt,” Lou said happily, snuggled beneath the furs on the bed.

“Yes. Now come along. I won’t have you spending another night covered in filth, dirtying the bed linens in my home.”

“Haven’t seen your bed linens, ‘ave I?” Lou playfully replied. “But I bet I could find a way to get you to dirty them up without much complaint.”

Harry ducked his head, hiding his flush beneath his wild morning hair. “Enough.”

Lou whistled some rustic tune as they trekked down to the Great Keep’s baths. No one but the Stark family and their most loyal attendants, sworn to silence, were allowed inside, so Lou would have privacy.

“I’ll leave some clothes for you,” Harry said, looking at the water that was always kept steaming from underground hot water springs. “Wash yourself. Dress. I’ll be waiting for you when you finish.”

Lou looked over at the water, then down at his dirt caked and rumpled clothes. “Who will attend to me?” he asked.

Harry snorted. “You want to be waited on by an attendant? One night in the civilized world and already you act like nobility.”

Lou stepped forward, always crowding Harry’s space. “Don’t need an attendant like some privileged lit’l lord. Just need someone to wash the places I can’t reach.” With that, he wrapped his hand around Harry’s waist until it settled over the bottom of his spine, fingers brushing lower and lower until Harry grabbed his arm, savagely stopping its progress.

“Then they’ll have to stay dirty. No one will be seeing them anyway. Least of all me.”

“Shame.”

“Hardly. Now _wash_.”

“Yes... _m’lord_.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at the title. It held no respect or reverence when said from those lips. He turned away just as Lou started to tease with the laces of his breeches, slamming the door to the baths behind him as he went. He could hear the faint chime of laughter from within and tried not to let it unnerve him. With determined strides, he retrieved some plain clothing in Winterfell green. With hesitancy, he cracked open the door to the baths just enough to slip the clothing through, but not enough to see anything. It didn’t stop him from smelling the fragrance of soap or hearing the sound of water splashing over bare flesh before he could close the door again.

After that, he paced the hall in wait for far too long, until Lou finally emerged. With his hair still dripping and his skin dewy and pink from being scrubbed, he looked younger than he had seemed last night, closer to Harry’s own age. He fidgeted with the new clothes, a bit big on him, pulling at them as if they itched.

“I don’t like the color,” he commented idly.

_It suits you_ , Harry wanted to say, swallowing the lump in his throat at seeing his family’s colors on a stranger...on this stranger. But instead, “Would you rather your old, muddy apparel?” 

Lou shook his head. “No. I’ll make do. Now what?” he asked.

Harry hadn’t the slightest. “Back upstairs, I suppose.”

Lou frowned. “I thought I wasn’t a prisoner? Are you goin’ to keep me locked up forever?”

_I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to._

“I’ll think of something. Until then, this is what’s safest.” Then after a moment, “Please.”

Lou sighed. “Alright. But I want to see Winterfell. I want to see the North’s greatest jewel. While I’m here.”

“And how long will that be?” Harry dared to ask.

“As long as it takes.” 

Then he left Harry alone, following the hall back towards the stairwell leading to his borrowed bedchambers.

“We won’t have that kind of time,” Harry told the empty hallway.

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

The longer Harry kept Lou stowed away in what was now undoubtedly _his_ rooms, the more irritated and snappish the Wildling became. Harry brought him three meals a day, escorted him to the baths each morning, and made sure the chamber pots in his room were emptied by servants while Lou was bathing. Harry was doing right by his ward. But his ward was not satisfied.

“I’m surprised you haven’t put bars on me windows. Or a big fat lock on the door!” Lou complained loudly one morning a week into his stay when Harry had come to his rooms to fetch him for yet another bath.

It was getting harder and harder to explain to anyone who asked where Harry was running off to every time he begged away from his usual duties to go check in on Lou. Already Maester Luwin was growing suspicious. Bran was asking questions. Rickon was pouting about why Harry had stopped taking him riding in the mornings. And Lou was becoming absolutely intolerable in his pleadings to be let loose in Winterfell.

With Bran, Luwin and Rickon in the Great Hall hearing local complaints, Harry figured now would be his chance to put a stop to at least stop one of his new problems.

“You want to see Winterfell? Fine. But you are to stay at my side the entire time. No speaking to anyone. No running off. And no more whining. If anyone asks, you’re visiting from the Eyrie. A distant cousin.”

“Won’t they know I’m not from the Eyrie? The North is small, everyone will wonder why they haven’t seen me before,” Lou said, all the while excitedly fixing his fringe in light of the possibility of seeing other humans besides Harry for the first time in who knows how long.

“With your manners, I’m sure they’ll figure you’ve been hidden away for a reason,” Harry huffed, turning to make his way out of the Great Keep. “Besides, no one from the Eyrie is in Winterfell to recognize you. They keep to themselves.”

“Why?” Lou asked, scurrying to follow after Harry.

“They don’t like to entangle themselves in the squabbles of the Crown.”

“But Jon Arryn was the Hand. You can’t _get_ anymore entangled in the Crown.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Yes. He was,” he mused. “How did you…”

“I’ve heard about the Vale,” Lou continued, speaking right over Harry. “The Bloody Gate. The Moon Door. The Sky Cells. The knights.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes. All impressive. If you can ignore the weak minded fools at its charge.”

No one in the North had been happy when Lysa Arryn had denied backing her own sister Catelyn in the war. Harry had no great love for his Aunt Lysa. She grieved her late husband, Jon, but was too selfish and scared to stand up and avenge him. She and her knights hid away behind her Bloody Gates and Moon Door and Sky Cells with her seven year old son Robin still suckling from her breast.

“Aren’t they your family?” Lou asked.

“Cowards,” Harry hissed.

Lou didn’t say more, sensing Harry’s anger. He just followed as Harry moved through the halls of the Great Keep until they were at the main doors. There would be guards just outside. Harry’s fists clenched, praying he wasn’t about to walk Lou into a death sentence.

Lou seemed to sense his nerves. “I’m your cousin from the Eyrie, remember?” he said, adopting an impeccable Northern accent.

Harry took a deep breath and then pushed the doors open into the lightly falling snow.

Twenty minutes later, he realized he needn’t have worried. Lou was already the most beloved man in Winterfell. Immediately upon being released from the Great Keep, he had ignored every one of Harry’s warnings, aside from the one about his identity. He had greeted everyone he saw, stopping to speak with them, learning their names, hearing their stories. He ran off without a moment’s notice, returning to a frantic Harry with some new treasure he had found, a bit of hay from the stables, a sweet treat given to him by a kind elder, an oddly shaped stone that had been bestowed upon him by a child. He held them in his hands as if they were as good as gold. He pulled Harry along from place to place, asking questions and touching everything. Harry was helpless to the whirlwind that was Lou learning Winterfell.

“What’s in there?” Lou asked, pointing up at the Great Hall. They had just seen the Sept, which Lou offhandedly commented was much smaller than the Sept of Baelor in King's Landing. 

“The Great Hall,” Harry answered. “When visiting nobility is here, that’s where they are received, just as the grievances of our people are heard there. It is a place for everyone.” 

“Even Wildlings?” Lou asked, with a raised brow.

“For visiting cousins of the Eyrie, yes,” Harry sternly reminded him.

Lou nodded quickly. “Of course, dear cousin. Can we see it?”

Bran’s duties with Maester Luwin would be done now, so Harry figured it was safe. He nodded, and led Lou forward to its imposing wooden doors, something meant to inspire both awe and welcome.

Once inside, the room was near silent, cleared out where it had been bustling just an hour before. A warm fire was blazing in the giant hearth that stood behind the head table. Candles glowed on the tables and from the ceiling in wrought iron chandeliers.

Each of their steps echoed along the walls as Lou slowly walked its perimeter. Along the windows hung the silk sigils of Winterfell’s bannermen. Above the hearth was the banner of the Stark wolf.

Lou pointed up at the sunburst sigil.

“Karstark,” Harry said. “Pledged two thousand men and three hundred horses to my brother.”

“And that one?” Lou asked, eyeing the roaring giant.

“Umber. Hard edged but loyal.”

Without being asked, Harry began naming the bannermen, as he had learned as a boy, as Bran and Rickon were learning now.

“Hornwood. Cerwyn. Flint. Mormont. Manderly.” With each, he proudly told Lou how many men they had pledged to Robb’s cause.

They got to the inverted flayed man and Lou frowned, nose scrunching at the barbaric sigil.

Harry laughed. “Bolton. Savages, they are. Flay their enemies alive for sport. You don’t want them on the opposing side. But the Boltons and Starks have been peaceful for years.”

“They weren’t always?”

“No. The Boltons wanted control of the North. But my father was named its protector under King Robert. Roose Bolton has never been happy about it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it, so he has pledged his allegiance to the Starks. He rode south with my brother, bringing three thousand men. He’s doing what’s right.”

They continued down the line of banners until they got to the sigil of the Twin castles. 

“House Frey. Headed by the infamous Late Lord Frey of the Riverlands,” Harry mocked. “Ready for the war when the dead are already being counted. He’d sell his soul to the highest bidder, or better yet the soul of one of his poor daughters. My brother Robb has just promised to wed one of them in exchange for being allowed to cross the Twins on the road south. Sometimes it seems everyone wants to marry a Stark.”

“But not a Snow,” Lou said.

Harry sighed deeply, looking along the line of banners. There was no banner for bastards.

“No. No one wants a Snow.”

“Nor a Waters,” Lou said softly, the name for bastards in King’s Landing. “Or a Sand, or Pyke, or Storm, or Stone,” he added quickly.

Harry looked up at the banners of all the places he would never belong. Maybe that was why he had always wanted to join the Night’s Watch. It was its own brotherhood, a place that wanted the unwanted, a place of honor for the dishonorable. He would rather be a Crow than be no one.

Someday, Harry told himself. When the war was over and his duty here was done. Then he could take the sacred Oath.

“Come. We have more to see,” Harry said, pulling Lou away from the banners and pulling his mind away from such far away hopes of freedom. “I want to show you the glass garden. Have you ever seen a winter rose?”

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

In the week that followed, Harry no longer needed to accompany Lou around the castle. He was a quick study of space, an even quicker judge of character. He knew how to get what he wanted and how to charm his way into getting it. People were talking fondly about the visiting cousin from the Eyrie, such a handsome boy, and have you seen his eyes, always smiling, always willing to sit and have a chat. Harry wasn’t sure if his frustration was from Lou inserting himself so effortlessly into the ways of Winterfell or from the fact that he now had to share Lou with the people of Winterfell. Harry had to satisfy himself with watching from afar as Lou worked his way more steadily into the affections of the usually cold hearted Northerners.

If they only knew who he was...what he was.

Then again, Harry wasn’t even so sure of that anymore.

The more Harry watched Lou, the more perplexed he was. Lou was a Wildling, but there was something very tame about him too. Something refined. Harry saw it in the way he held himself, the way he ate, the gestures he made when he happily spoke to children in the courtyard, the fact he could write and read, even his speech sometimes. The slurring cadence of beyond the Wall transitioned easily into the well known dialect of the Eyrie. And then sometimes it was something else entirely. 

Ghost, in a strange shift of alliance, had started to follow Lou around on his daily explorations of Winterfell. Lou strolled around the grounds with the massive direwolf at his side, a contrary pair, and chattered happily to the beast as if it could understand him. But how could it when the voice that spoke to it had a decidedly _southern_ accent?

Harry’s head was spinning in confusion. And when he was in this kind of state, he always found the best remedy was physical exhaustion. Nothing cleared the mind more than complete and utter fatigue. And nothing was more fatiguing than a few rounds in the training ring with a sword in his hand. Harry left Lou and Ghost to their adventures, which he was clearly not welcome to accompany, and marched to the armory with a dark cloud over his dark-haired head.

After three hours spent in the training paddock, Harry found his mission accomplished...at least partially so. He had succeeded in driving himself to exhaustion, so dead tired and so caked in mud that it looked like he had crawled up from the very grave in which his body felt it belonged. But while he thought that maybe a good sparr would get his blood flowing and help him shake off the stress about Lou, with each swing of his sword against his unlucky training opponent for the day, the gnawing feeling of incertitude only grew stronger in the pit of his stomach. And then there was the other growing feeling that seemed to reside a little lower than his gut, the one that made its presence known every time Lou looked up at him through his lashes or shot him a piercing look across the courtyard. Swinging a sword at a squire in training did little to smother that burning heat.

Harry had felt that heat before. But never so strongly that he couldn’t manage with his own right hand. Never enough to cause him to question his usually steadfast adherence to celibacy.

On his way back from the armory, he took the long way around the courtyard in hopes of avoiding that frustrating blue eyed gaze. The phantom weight of his armour still laid heavily across his shoulders, hunching him over, and his body screamed for reprieve. A hot bath sounded like the perfect solution to unwinding his muscles and easing some tension. With quick steps, he rerouted his course to the Great Keep, destination being the baths.

He could smell the sweet scent of soaps and lotions all the way down the hall as he approached the baths. He started to peel off layers before he even made it into the steam filled room. His swords clattered to the floor when he dropped the heavy belt, feeling lighter by the moment. The baths were simple, compared to what would be found in the more lavish cities south, but they served their purpose. The large central bath was carved of stone, enough to fit at least ten men, although it was usually just one within its depths. Lunettes filtered soft light into the room, cutting through the steam.

One of the beams of light fell upon the lone occupant already enjoying a soak. 

Harry stopped, going entirely still with half the laces to his breeches undone. His chest was already bare, skin exposed in a way that was rare this far North.

Lou watched him intently, fingertips idly tracking along the surface of the water as he remained submerged from the shoulders down. The soft trickling of water could be heard from the ripples he created, the only sound in the room.

Lou inclined his head, and his damp fringe fell away from his closed eyes. “Water’s warm,” he commented idly. He sunk down deeper, letting it wet his hair. When he resurfaced, he pushed the strands back from his face. His eyes opened and landed on Harry’s chest. “Have you been rolling in pig shite? I can smell you from here, my lord.”

Harry started to lace up his breeches again. “I’m...I’m sorry to have interrupted. I’ll leave you in peace.” He took unsteady steps backwards, but Lou rose slowly from the bath. Harry held his breath as he watched more and more naked skin revealed. Water ran in rivulets down the slopes and ridges of Lou’s body, tracing curves carved like marble. The water mercifully stopped just below his navel. Harry could not see what was hidden beneath its depths, too obscured by the water’s disturbance.

Lou held out a hand. “No need for that. Are we not both men? Do we not have the same parts? Nothin’ I ‘aven’t seen before, aye?” 

Harry shuddered, hands still on his laces. Lou walked forward through the water until he was at the side of the baths nearest Harry. Harry found himself unable to stop approaching until he was right at the water’s edge. Lou looked up at him, lips drawn in a satisfied half smile.

Harry’s fingers were shaking too hard to manage the laces. Lou reached up to make effortless work of them, taking his time peeling the fabric down from Harry’s hips. Harry didn’t dare speak, nor even breathe. He watched as his most intimate parts were exposed, nearly level with the Wildling’s eyes...and lips.

Lou’s eyes stayed locked with Harry’s the entire time he worked the breeches down. Then finally, they lowered until they lingered on Harry's stirring desire. 

“You were right. Back in the forest. You were right,” Lou murmured. Harry could feel the warm breath against his aching flesh.

_So were you_ , Harry wanted to say, because in the face of what had haunted his dreams the past two weeks since Lou’s arrival, he was unable to make it a reality.

Thankfully, Lou stepped away, moving back through the water to his side of the bath and allowing Harry space. Harry clung to it gratefully and quickly slipped beneath the surface to hide himself. The warmth of the water unraveled his muscles as he had known it would, but it only fueled his longing. While separated, Harry was still sharing a bath with Lou...with anyone...for the first time in his life.

Lou, for his part, looked perfectly at ease with one arm resting against the stone lip of the sunken bath and the other carelessly drawing patterns on the water’s surface. 

“Your home,” Lou began, making easy conversation. “It’s quite spectacular. More so than I imagined it to be from all the stories.”

“And did you often imagine it?” Harry said with a husky voice.

Lou pursed his lips. “I imagined what it would be like to live somewhere so open, so free, so wild. Ever since I was a boy.” His eyes widened, then he said, “Even us _Free Folk_ don’t always feel that way. We all have our own walls, even if they aren’t as conspicuous as the monstrosity that separates you from us.”

Harry hummed, but his heart and mind were racing. “What is it like...beyond the Wall?” Harry asked, pretending he wasn’t cataloguing Lou’s every word and expression.

Lou’s eyes shifted to the water, hand stalling for a moment before continuing its lazy path. His breath was coming out with heavier force, as if he had just been the one fighting in the training ring. “It’s...a lifetime of living in fear, of always looking over your shoulder for the next threat and never knowing what atrocities you’ll have to commit next to survive. It’s being looked down upon by everyone around you because you didn’t come from somewhere reputable. It doesn’t feel _free_. It never has.”

Lou looked upset, visibly so. Something in his eyes reflected the bath water in a way that said they too were filled to the brim. Harry wanted to soothe him, but he also needed answers.

“We’ve all committed atrocities. But it’s very different if they’re done in self preservation or self satisfaction.” 

“I don’t think that matters,” Lou replied. “You’re still hurting people. You still have choices.”

“What, fight or die? Hardly a choice.”

“Sometimes I wonder if dying would be more noble...easier.”

“You can’t protect the ones you love if you’re in a crypt,” Harry pointed out.

“No. But the ones I love don’t need protecting. Others need protection against them. What does it say about me if I save the monsters instead of those they terrorize?”

“Monsters,” Harry mused. “The only true monsters I know are White Walkers. And even then, it’s all just nursemaid’s stories.”

“My monsters are real.” It was so quiet Harry barely heard it.

“Your family,” Harry continued, “Which clan are they from?”

Lou frowned, closing his eyes tightly. When they opened again, they were clear...and determined. He lifted his body from the seat he had been perched on and moved closer to Harry again. Harry pressed his back to the stone edge of the bath, eyes wide as Lou approached.

Lou eased himself down next to Harry, so close that their thighs brushed beneath the surface, slick and soft. Harry took a shuddering breath and turned his head away from Lou. Lou brought it back with a single finger against his jaw.

“I can see what you’re fighting for,” Lou told him. “You may not win. But you need to fight. For this.”

_I would fight for you. For us._

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but it was cut off by the soft press of Lou’s lips meeting his own. The words Harry was going to say finally questioning Lou were wiped from his mind. All that existed was the feel of tender kisses and soft sighs. Lou reached a wet hand up and steadied Harry’s jaw, bringing it closer so he could deepen the kiss. Harry was motionless, pliant and loose, as Lou took what he wanted.

With a little nip to his bottom lip, Lou drew back and looked at Harry. “Put your hands on me,” he whispered. “Take me.”

Harry’s lips parted. He shook his head, unable to say that he didn’t know how to take, didn’t want to take. He wanted to give. Especially not with someone from whom so much had already been taken. He wanted to see the pleasure in another as he chased his own. But Lou didn’t seem to understand Harry’s fumblings.

Lou’s eyes grew desperate. He pressed back in with another kiss, more passionate than the last. His tongue licked the seam of Harry’s lips until it was granted passage, then it teased at Harry’s tongue, quick little flicks that left him wanting more. But still, Harry didn’t reach for him, didn’t dare touch what he knew he could never hold.

Lou’s frustration mounted. He swung his leg up and over Harry’s hips and settled himself in Harry’s lap. Harry choked back a sob when Lou’s length pressed against his own, equally hard and slick.

“Come on,” Lou breathed fervidly as his hips began to rock over Harry’s, burning them both in the heat of friction. Water swirled around them when Lou moved, head bowed down to press against Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry finally lifted his hand from the water. With a careful touch, he brushed back the hair that had fallen across Lou’s forehead. Lou gasped at the delicate tenderness, sitting up immediately. His eyes darted back and forth between Harry’s in such close proximity.

“It should have been you,” Lou said. “Riding south. Your people. They respect you. It’s all they talk about. You aren’t a bastard to them. You don’t see it. But maybe one day you will. You’re not a monster. You never will be.” He grabbed both sides of Harry’s face with his hands, attacking him with lips and tongue and teeth. “It should have been you. But I’m glad it wasn’t.”

He reached one of his hands down and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s length. Harry let his head rest against the lip of the bath, eyes rolled back in pleasure. It was different with another. So much more than with his own hand. Lou’s touch was unpredictable, ever changing, rhythm never steady for long. It was more firm than Harry would have given himself, but maybe that was why it was undoing him more quickly. Or maybe that was just because of the fact that Harry could feel the physical proof against his hip bone that he wasn’t the only one affected.

Lou’s grip was relentless, as were his teeth, sinking into the muscle of Harry’s shoulder and leaving their indent. Harry would wear the mark for days to come, he already knew. It would be hidden beneath his armor, covered by his mantle. But he would know it was there, as Lou would.

“I can feel it. You’re close,” Lou purred against Harry’s neck, sounding as if he were as well.

Harry nodded mutely, eyes still closed. Finally, he settled his hands over Lou’s hips, and the sudden contact had Lou jerking against him. His hips stuttered in their fluid motion when Harry’s fingers brushed over the cleft of his ass. He bit back a grunt and tightened in Harry’s hold. His breath sounded choked, catching in his throat as he tried to keep himself quiet. Even still, the sound echoed around the chambers, around Harry’s head, in the hollow of his ribcage.

“Lou,” Harry whispered into the steam. 

“Harry,” Lou moaned in return, widening his fingers until both their lengths were in his palm, pressed together in the heat of the water. He gripped them tight, pulling as he thrust, skin sliding against Harry’s in the most delicious way. “Harry.”

After that, it was fast and frenzied, but Harry wouldn’t expect any less with a Wildling. Lou’s head rested against Harry’s temple so that he could hear every lustful breath or word spoken. “Come for me. Let me see you,” Lou pleaded. “Let me have this.”

“It’s yours.” And Harry gave it to him. He lifted his hips from bench and drove up against Lou’s pelvis. The motion would have dismounted him if he weren’t clinging to Harry so tightly.

Harry was blinded by the strength of his orgasm. His fingers dug into the giving flesh of Lou’s ass, pulling him closer. Lou arched against him, nearly bending his back to the water while his hands latched to Harry’s shoulders. He grunted like a wild animal when he tensed and then released into the torrent of water between them.

Harry was breathing heavily, even his most basic reserves depleted. He was unable to muster the strength to move a single limb despite the fact his legs were going numb under Lou’s weight and his digits were pruned. His mind was floating, just as his curls were where they brushed the water’s surface.

Lou curled up against him and stroked a hand over his sternum. “Don’t ever go south,” he mumbled against Harry’s skin. “Someone like you doesn’t belong there. There’s no one there like you. You can’t cage a wolf.”

"They're caging my father," Harry answered. 

Lou took a deep breath. Harry could feel the expansion of Lou’s chest against his own, sharp ribs poking out. Harry let his fingers span Lou’s side, fitting themselves in the spaces between as he tried to stay in this moment a little longer.

They had only a few more minutes before voices could be heard down the hallway. With quick movements, Lou pushed back away from Harry and lifted himself from the shallow bath. Harry only got a quick glimpse of his backside before he was wrapped in a robe. He hurried to the shadows where the lights didn’t touch and then was gone altogether. He left his wet footprints on the stone floor and a million unanswered questions spinning through Harry’s mind.

The door to the baths opened, and Maester Luwin stepped through, averting his eyes respectfully.

“My lord. Ravens from the front. We’ve captured the Kingslayer.”

Harry’s brows rose in surprise. “I’ll be there shortly.”

All he wanted to do was sink back into the water until it soaked into his veins and carried him away on its gentle waves, but he had duties. And they never ended. At least now one Lannister was in Stark possession. One by one, they would fall, and Harry hoped selfishly that he might be able to deliver justice to at least one of them should the Old Gods grant him the honor.

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

It had been a long few hours educating his younger brother, Bran, about military tactics after they received the raven messages from Robb’s camp. Bran was scared, and rightfully so. His eldest brother and mother were closing in on King’s Landing and currently holding one of the most valuable and dangerous prisoners of war. Harry did the best he could to ease the young boy’s worries, but with such limited information, it was difficult to do much. After a while, Harry’s exhaustion started to take its toll and he no longer had the right words.

“I’m going to retire for the night,” he told his brothers, Maester Luwin, and the few other loyal advisors who had been present for the discussions. “We’ve sent our replies, now we have to wait.”

They bid him goodnight and he left the Great Hall to head back to his rooms. While on the way, he decided to take the long way and walk through the Godswood.

It had been a long time since he had been here to pray. In times like these, prayer seemed so passive a pursuit. But when there was nothing left to do, he took solace in sitting with the Old Gods at the Heart Tree. Deep in the Godswood it stood proudly, a weirwood nearly as large as the tallest tower of Winterfell. It’s red leaves fluttered in the evening breeze while its sturdy pale trunk grew in perpetuity near the edge of the pools. A light fall of snow had just begun, coating the ground in sparkling white while it disappeared into nothing when it fell over the warm springs.

Harry took his glove off and lay his hand on the rough wood just below the carved face.

A single leaf fell from the tree, landing in the warm springs of the pool. It floated across the surface in spiral patterns, just as Lou’s fingertips had done in the baths.

“Give me the strength to fight, the knowledge to know when I should, the courage to win, and the heart to love,” Harry prayed, as his father used to do whenever he visited the Godswood. Harry hoped that Ned Stark was still calling upon the Gods, even if he didn’t have a Heart Tree to pray beneath.

“Protect him,” Harry pleaded. The wind whispered through the leaves. 

_It may be too much to ask. Especially for a bastard._

In that moment, Harry felt just as hopeless as the leaf spinning over the water, just as cast aside and useless. Harry Snow would never be a hero, or a king, or even legitimate. He had never known anyone who understood what it was like, living life as the proof of a mistake. But Lou knew. Deep down, Harry knew that Lou understood.

Maybe it was finally time to journey north to the Wall. Unless there was a more important reason to stay.

Harry left the Godswood and ventured back to the Great Keep. WIth heavy steps, he ascended the stairs to his rooms and the warmth of the furs on his bed. Ghost was nowhere to be found, but Harry suspected he was probably sleeping in Lou’s room, as he had started doing a few days ago.

Harry entered his bed chambers, and like the baths this morning, found them to be already occupied. Lou was pacing, pulling at his hair and his clothes. He was clutching something to his chest, a scroll of paper. When he turned and saw Harry, he startled, dropping the paper. Harry bent to collect it and saw that it was one of the messages from the ravens this evening about the imprisonment of Ser Jamie Lannister. Harry didn’t know how it came into his possession, but this was a strange reaction to learning of a stranger’s capture.

“Lou?” Harry asked tentatively, taking in his wild eyes and pinched lips.

“Was he harmed?” Lou asked, voice taking on that same strange southern cadence he spoke to Ghost.

“He’s lucky he wasn’t killed on sight,” Harry replied through gritted teeth. “If it had been me, he would already be rotting in a shallow grave.” 

Lou shook his head, desperately looking to Harry. “You wouldn’t have.”

Harry was quick to anger. “That family is directly responsible for countless horrors, some of which have been committed against my very own flesh and blood. You think I should show them mercy? That I would?”

“They’re not all that way,” Lou argued.

Harry scoffed. He turned from Lou and started his own path of pacing. He articulated every word carefully, more of a devotion than anything he had prayed in the Godswood. “If I ever see another Lannister, I’m going to slice my sword through them from navel to neck and remind them that the North never forgets.”

“But can you forgive?” Lou asked quietly. 

“A wolf never forgives a lion for tearing apart its pack.”

Lou was silent for a moment and then said, “What if the lion wanted to join the pack?”

Harry’s breath stopped and his nostrils flared. “I know you’re not a Wildling,” Harry finally accused. It had all been adding up to this one truth, and now Harry needed to hear it confirmed from Lou’s lips.

“You know nothing, Harry Snow,” Lou hissed back.

Before Harry knew what hit him, Lou was on him. His arms wrapped around Harry’s shoulders and his leg hitched up over Harry’s hip, grinding their pelvises together. Lou bit his bottom lip, probably drawing blood. He soothed it with a swipe of his tongue and then went right back to his assaults.

Harry stumbled backwards into the room until they were standing near the hearth, trying desperately to grab Lou anywhere he could. His hand slipped beneath the fabric of Lou’s breeches, squeezing the firm flesh of his ass. Lou moaned into his mouth, encouraging Harry to push his hand further down until he grazed his fingers over Lou’s rim. Lou hissed at the contact and sucked a mark into Harry’s jaw.

It didn’t take long after that for Harry to tear Lou’s breeches aside, shredding the flimsy stitching that wasn’t made to withstand this type of passion. His tunic hung low over his hips, once again obscuring Harry’s view of what he most desired to see. But that would be no longer. Harry seized each edge of the tunic at Lou’s throat and ripped it right down the center until he was finally bare before Harry’s eyes.

“Gods be good,” Harry breathed, unable to settle his eyes on one place for long because there was so much to behold. The curve of Lou’s collarbone was the perfect place for marks of passion. His stomach was soft but slender, somewhere to pepper gentle kisses. His legs were strong and firm with an ass that was carved by years of practice in a saddle. And his cock. Harry didn’t know the mechanics, but he wanted his lips around that cock. There was no reason to deny himself that pleasure when Lou gripped himself in his fist and nodded to Harry. 

Harry dropped to his knees. Lou smelled faintly of the soaps from the bath this morning, cedarwood and pine, with something distinctly dark and foreign beneath. His erection stood out away from his body, skin pink and smooth. Lou gave it a few easy strokes, and Harry watched as the foreskin slid back to expose the flushed head. He brushed Lou’s hand aside.

Harry held Lou’s hips in a shaky grip and then sank his mouth down over the rigid flesh until he choked himself. The taste was sharp and spicy but with a rich sweetness Harry hadn’t expected. He pulled back sputtering, already leaning forward to bob his head again, but Lou stopped him with a firm grip in his curls. Harry went lax at the restraint and looked up at Lou. 

“You’ve never…” Lou started to say. 

“I want to,” Harry cut him off desperately. He flicked his tongue out at the head of Lou’s cock, all he could reach while being held back. “I’ve never wanted to before, but I want to now. With you.”

Lou squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “This shouldn’t be your first time. It shouldn’t be with me.”

“It will be my first everything,” Harry admitted softly. “Which is why I want it to be with you.”

Lou’s breath caught on a gasp, big blue eyes looking haunted. “It’s not my first time,” Lou said with what sounded like regret. “But it may be the first time I’ve ever wanted it like this.”

Harry leaned forward again, enjoying the sharp spike of pain prickling at his scalp as Lou continued to grip his hair. He mouthed at the side of Lou’s cock from tip to base, tongue tracing the thick veins and ridges. He reached down beneath to cup Lou’s balls in his hand and rolled them in his fingers while his tongue worked under the foreskin. Above him Lou groaned so loudly Harry worried that everyone in the Great Keep might hear. But none of that mattered when Lou tugged at his hair again, making him hiss in pleasure born of pain.

With a quick look up at Lou, who was already watching him, Harry dared to take him into his mouth again. He went slowly this time, relaxing his throat and letting his lips give Lou the tight heat he instinctively knew would feel good. His mouth felt so full this way, nose nearly pressed to the thick thatch of hair above Lou’s manhood. Spit was already starting to seep from his mouth, running down his chin messily. He breathed through his nose and tried swallowing, earning another grunt of satisfaction from Lou. Experimentally, he moved his tongue, pressing it up into the base of Lou’s cock.

“Your tongue. The things you do with that tongue,” Lou gasped. Harry moaned, and the vibrations of it made Lou twitch in his mouth.

Harry was so overwhelmed that he hadn’t even realized how hard he was in his breeches, still mostly clothed, until Lou lifted a foot to gently press his instep against Harry’s crotch.

The movement caused Harry to accidentally let his teeth graze over Lou’s skin, and Lou barked out in surprise. 

Harry squeezed his hip in apology, blinking up at him with wide, wet eyes. Lou reached down and traced his finger over Harry’s lips, split wide by his girth. Harry sucked hard, cheeks caving in as he tried swallowing again.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Lou huffed, tugging once more on Harry’s hair hard enough to dislodge him. Harry gulped in a full breath, panting with it as he stared at Lou’s spit shiny cock just inches from his mouth. He reached a finger up and traced over the slit to catch a bubble of precome. Lou pulled his hips back sharply. “Stop,” he repeated raggedly. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry immediately replied, worried he’d done something wrong.

Lou shook his head. He brushed his thumb over Harry’s swollen, pink bottom lip in tender reassurance. Harry caught the digit between his teeth for a moment and then kissed the pad gently. “No, don’t apologize. I was just...too close. Need you to feel good too. It’s not about me.” 

Harry frowned. “Yes it is. It should be.” 

Lou looked confused for a moment, stunned silent. Harry stood, knees aching from the cold stone floor, and cupped Lou’s cheek. He drew him in for a gentle kiss, knowing that Lou could taste himself on Harry’s tongue.

“What do you want?” Lou asked suddenly. His lips were trembling, body shivering as well when Harry drew him towards the bed. “How...how do you want me? On my back? On my stomach?”

Harry pressed a kiss to Lou’s forehead and guided his shoulders down until he was seated on the bed. With the heel of his hand, he pushed Lou down until he was laying spread across the furs. He was so beautiful this way, pale skin lit by firelight. He looked so...northern. Even though Harry knew he was not.

Lou looked up at him uncertainly until Harry began to undress himself. “I want...I want to feel you. I want you inside me,” Harry confessed, the honesty more frightening than the act itself.

Lou bit his lip and nodded. He reached his hand down, skimming over his already sweat damp skin and fingering at his pert nipples before wrapping his hand around himself. He stroked lazily as Harry finished undressing. The longer it took, the more Lou grew impatient. His back arched up off the bed, writhing across the fur. Harry was shaking when he finally kneed his way onto the bed, settling over Lou’s hips.

Lou sat up, stomach muscles clenching, and kissed over where the pulse point jumped in Harry’s neck until he reached his sternum. Harry was sure Lou would be able to feel his heart pounding like a racing horse’s hooves beneath his ribcage.

“We don’t have to do this. It might...hurt,” Lou explained. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Harry shook his head. “It shouldn’t hurt. And if it does, only in the best kind of way.”

Lou again furrowed his brow. Harry guided Lou’s hands towards his backside, where they kneaded his flesh and pulled him apart. Harry retrieved a small phial of oil from the table beside his bed that he applied to soothe his skin from the harsh northern climate. Tonight was the first time it would be used for its intended purpose.

“Tell me,” Lou pleaded. “Tell me if it hurts.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Yes. I promise.”

Lou uncapped the bottle with unsteady hands and poured some of the slippery lubricant over his fingers, a bit dripping on his skin over the light smattering of russet chest hair. With a deep exhale, he traced a single slick digit up the center of Harry’s cleft, brushing ever so softly over his rim. Harry bucked away from the burst of sensation, but Lou’s relentless fingers followed him.

“It’s alright,” Lou soothed, his touch a bit more firm this time. The pressure helped, and Harry settled back against his touch. Lou played with him for a bit, circling and spreading the oil around Harry’s most sensitive area.

“Please,” Harry mumbled.

Lou pressed one of his fingers forward and breached Harry’s entrance. Harry clenched around him, the intrusion already stretching his virgin hole so much. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed his hands down on Lou’s shoulders to ground himself, panting through the burn.

Lou whispered encouragements and pet at Harry’s thigh with the hand that wasn’t steadily working into Harry’s body. “Is it too much?” he asked. 

Harry swallowed heavily. “N...no. More. Need more.”

Lou looked concerned, but he complied. Another finger started to push at Harry’s rim and he tried his best to relax to allow it entry. Lou was patient, responding to every hitch of Harry’s breath and shiver of his body as he slowly opened him, one finger to two and then two to three. It took so long, Harry wasn’t sure how Lou was keeping himself composed, but he didn’t rush. He gave Harry all the time he needed.

When Harry started to move his hips along with Lou’s thrusts, Lou spread his fingers, stretching Harry’s ring of muscle. And that’s when the realization of what was going to happen fully hit Harry. He looked down at Lou’s cock, so engorged now it was practically purple. Lou had a hand around his base, tightly wrapped to stave off his own orgasm while he readied Harry. Perspiration was building at Lou’s hairline, the same way it was dripping down the center of Harry’s back.

“Now,” Harry told him. “I need you. Now.”

Lou nodded sharply and removed his hand from himself with a sigh. Harry lifted his hips and seated himself over Lou’s waiting erection. He paused for a moment, thighs shaking, and waited for Lou to look up at him.

When blue eyes met green, Harry slowly began to drop his hips down. Lou’s tip caught first and Harry gasped. Then he moaned wantonly as he was taken for the very first time. Any hurt he felt was overwhelmed by the flood of emotion at being joined with another this way. He was no longer a lone wolf, watching his pack from the fringe. He was running with someone, tied to someone, even if that someone wasn’t another wolf...was something else.

Working himself down with tight circles of his hips, Harry took all Lou had to offer until Lou was bottomed out within him. He stayed that way for a long moment, adjusting to the delicious ache. Nothing had ever felt like this. So raw and consuming. He’d never known this type of bone deep satisfaction could ever be his.

Lou choked out a sob, shaking with how hard he was trying to hold himself still for Harry. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, and Harry leaned down to kiss the corner of his eyelids and taste them. When he did, Lou’s cock hit something inside of Harry that had him letting loose his own sob.

“There!” Harry cried. With a growl, Lou gave his first gentle thrust up off the furs and Harry nearly wept.

“So tight,” Lou grunted, finding a steady rhythm. Harry matched it. His body knew what to do, a primal instinct, something almost animal coursing through his veins.

He’d never felt more like the mighty wolf.

He wanted to howl. He wanted to tip his head back and let a life’s-worth of solitude and frustration tear from his throat. The pain, the pleasure, the sting, the stretch...Harry felt them all. And when he looked down, he knew Lou felt them too.

Harry had known he wouldn’t last long. Not this first time. He could already feel the tell-tale flame in his belly that was about to ignite and consume his every nerve ending. He wrapped his fingers around his length and gave it a few quick tugs, but the fire in Lou's eyes was what lit him ablaze. He went up in smoke, molten and scorching and _red red red_. Harry only had a second to cry out in warning, and then he was arching his back and painting his own chest in thick stripes of release.

Lou slammed his hips up, driving his cock as deeply into Harry as he could. Harry clenched around him, still riding out the waves of his orgasm as Lou shouted his way through his own.

Harry collapsed over Lou in a fatigue so draining that he was no longer able to hold his own weight. His quick breaths synced with Lou’s as they lay there together, slick and sweaty.

“It’s not...usually like that,” Lou finally said. Harry nodded as if he knew anything of it. His hair stuck to his skin, stuck to Lou’s skin where his head rested upon his collar bone.

Harry smiled, slow and lazy. “Mm. And like sword fighting, they say it only gets better. With practice.”

“You’ll have plenty of practice, I’m sure.”

Harry frowned, thinking of the Oath of the Night’s Watch. The Oath that called for celibacy. He was no longer sure he’d be able to take it knowing what he was giving up. 

“As long as it’s with you. I’m not done with you yet.” Harry could still feel Lou’s softening length within him and gave it one more light clench. Lou groaned at the overstimulation, lightly swatting at Harry’s bare bum.

Harry rolled off, sighing sadly at the feeling of Lou slipping from him, then wrinkling his nose as his release followed.

Lou chuckled, giving him a warm smile and flicking one of his nipples.

“Let’s stay here awhile longer,” Harry mumbled. In the dim light from the hearth, Lou's skin glowed, shadows painting intriguing patterns across his curves. Harry pulled Lou closer, ignoring the sweat and stick, and lifted the furs up and over their bodies.

“I don’t ever want to leave this bed, Harry Snow,” Lou admitted, but his eyes were sad again, washed in grey. They should never be colored like that. They should always be lit with the same blue fire Harry had just seen moments ago.

“Not ever,” Harry told him. He brushed the damp fringe from Lou’s face and then said more seriously, “I don’t know what you’re running from, but I promised you safety when I brought you to Winterfell. I swear an oath to you now in front of the Old Gods and the New to give you that. If you stay.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “With me.”

“And what’s the price?” he asked.

“Keeping company with a bastard,” Harry told him, running his hand down over Lou’s chest.

“We could keep each other company,” Lou mused.

“Quite a pair,” Harry said with a secret smile.

“Quite,” Lou replied immediately, tears shining in his eyes. He lifted his head from where it was resting on Harry’s shoulder and kissed his cheek. “Sleep well, my wolf.” 

And Harry did.

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

The morning came far too soon. Harry’s body was still tired when he awoke to the light of daybreak, and still sore in ways it never had been before, even after hours in the saddle or training with a sword. 

He stretched his arms overhead, toes curling at the slight ache of his rim. He still felt slick there and reached a finger back to touch his used flesh. He hissed at the sting, pouting when he realized there would be no repeat performance this morning with how tender he was despite the current hardness of his cock. 

He rolled over to voice his complaint to Lou, maybe see about stealing away down to the baths, but he was alone in bed. The mattress was still indented with the shape of another body, yet when Harry brushed his hand across the spot, it was cold.

He sat up in bed, a bit dizzy, and found that he wasn’t actually alone in his room. Ghost was sitting at the foot of his bed, red eyes intent on Harry. He let out a pitiful whine when he saw his master was awake. 

“Where’s Lou?” Harry asked. The direwolf whimpered again.

Harry frowned, throwing his feet over the side of the bed. Naked, he stalked across the room and grabbed a dressing robe. He pulled it across his body, cinching the belt tight, before he made his way out into the hallway.

Ghost followed in his shadow. His ears were drawn back and his tail was tucked in tension. Harry was starting to feel sickness roll in his stomach. Something was wrong. 

Before he could get down to the baths, he nearly ran right into Maester Luwin, who was coming up the stairs with some haste. 

“Ah. Harry. I’m sorry but there is an urgent message. A raven arrived just before dawn.”

He handed over the scroll and Harry took it with tremoring fingers. 

“Thank you,” he said, feeling faint. He turned on his heel and marched back up the stairs, unwilling to read whatever was scrawled on this bit of parchment in anyone else’s company.

When he shut himself back in his rooms, Ghost the only witness, Harry unrolled the script. It was in Robb’s handwriting.

_Be advised. Reports of Lannister spy in the North. Thought to be direct blood of the Crown. Capture if found. Two lions is better than one._

Harry wretched, holding his hand over his mouth as he dropped to his knees and emptied his stomach in his unused chamber pot. The waves of nausea wouldn’t stop as images of last night played in his mind, glimpses and moments from the past few weeks. Every look, every touch, every tenderness.

Lies. 

_Lannister lies._

Harry couldn’t help the angry tears from streaming down his face as he heaved. Ghost whimpered beside him, nudging Harry’s side with his snout.

“It wasn’t real,” Harry whispered. “None of it was real.” 

He threw up again, nothing but bile this time. 

After what felt like an eternity kneeling on the floor, Harry finally dragged himself over to his bed. He sat against it and pulled his knees up to his chest. The soreness he had felt in his body was nothing compared to the agony in his heart at the knowledge that he was alone once again...that he had been alone this entire time.

Never again would he feel this kind of pain, this kind of betrayal. To lay with someone so intimately and take them into your body, your mind, your heart, and then be left with nothing but the ghost of their memory was not something Harry could stand enduring again. Once was enough. In fact it was once too many.

“We’re going the Wall,” he told Ghost, wiping his mouth. “We’re taking the Oath. Today.”

He swore another oath in secret, too. If he ever saw Louis “ _The Lesser_ ” Lannister again he was going to make good on his promise of what happened when men of the North couldn’t forgive. 

Then Harry cried, broken hollow sobs that he wasn’t sure would ever end. At his side, Ghost tipped his head back and let loose a howl so loud it rang across the entire North.

Harry would miss the raven that was sent to Winterfell the next morning, the message reporting that Lord Ned Stark had been executed for treason. He wouldn’t hear of it until he reached Castle Black, and by that time, it was already too late.

One less wolf at the hand of a lion.

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

Louis didn’t remember the crypt being this cold the last time he passed through it. Then again, he hadn’t been alone last time. He pulled his stolen furs around his chest as his teeth chattered. It was dark, but Louis remembered the way. He always did. His mind was sharp, always looking, always learning, always a step ahead. It had kept him alive this long. And now, it kept him alive once more.

He found what he was looking for when he made it to the fair statue of Lyanna Stark, the woman who started something in Westeros that could never be undone. Looking upon her face, Louis now understood just how that could have happened. He had seen it last night in a face so similar, had wondered for a moment at a different future for himself that wasn’t destined to end with him always being _lesser_. The brand would follow him forever, until he died, and even beyond. It might even be written on his stone in the crypt, if he was even afforded one.

With a quick apology, he reclaimed the golden dagger that had been placed in Lyanna’s hand. With it tucked back into his belt, he hurried deeper into the crypt until he found the latched door. It was harder this time, on his own, but he managed to open it. He wasn’t able to hold it for long, though, and winced as it slammed shut behind him once he was through. With a quick look up at the battlements, he prayed that the darkness of night would give him cover.

He made a run for it, feet carrying him as fast as they could towards the Wolfswood. He didn’t turn back to see if he had been spotted, he just ran until he could run no more. It was a solid hour until he stopped, falling beside a weirwood with breaths coming out in wheezing gasps as he clung to its trunk. 

Dawn was just beginning to break when Louis finally felt strong enough to carry on. He hefted himself up and was about to start off again when he heard a rustling in the trees. He whirled around, drawing his blade in a flash to face whatever threat was there, but quickly found it was no threat at all. At least not to him.

Sandor Clegane, better know as the Hound and personal protector to the Crown, barrelled his way through the foliage, hacking angrily at it like it had offended him in some grievous way. When he saw Louis, swimming in Stark furs and wielding a dagger, he rolled his eyes.

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell. Where the fuck have you been?” he barked, sheathing his sword.

Louis settled, putting his blade back in his belt. “I’ve been doing my job, you giant mutt. What have you been doing? Pissing about out here in the woods?” he snapped.

The Hound glared at him, half burned face screwing up his scowl. “Been looking for _you,_ ya little cunt. There I am, catching up on me sleep, and next thing I know, I open my eyes and you’re _gone_. Couldn’t very well go back to King’s Landing without the precious baby Lannister, now could I? So I’ve been searchin’ every inch of this bloody forest looking for your scrawny arse.”

“I wanted to see Winterfell,” Louis said haughtily. “Knew we were nearby. And that you wouldn’t let us get close enough. So I went off on my own. Then I got a bit turned around. It got dark. And cold.”

The Hound huffed. “Winterfell’s not worth seeing anyway. Let’s go. Mission’s failed. At least now I can bring you back alive.”

Louis clicked his tongue. “I wouldn’t say the mission _failed_.”

“Oh no?”

 “No.”

“And why’s that?” the Hound asked, crossing his massive arms over his even bigger chest.

“I found Winterfell.”

The Hound grinned, rotting teeth on full display. “Well, even more important I deliver you back to your kin. Come on, then. Horses are this way.”

When they reached their horses, Louis’ beautiful white stallion was more than happy to see him again. Louis put a hand on the saddle and was about to put a foot in his stirrup when a distant sound caused them both to halt before mounting. It was the howl of a wolf, carrying over the trees. The wildlife around them dulled to sudden silence, listening to their brother’s call. The wolf’s solitary baying went on and on, long drawn notes of anguish that made Louis shudder.

“Damn North,” the Hound grunted, swinging himself up into his saddle.

“I’ll be happy to get back south again,” Louis replied flatly as he mounted his own horse and followed after the Hound.

The wolf carried on as they made their way south through the forest. The sound grew fainter but never stopped until Louis was sure it would stay with him forever.

After a quick look forward to be sure he wasn’t being watched, from the innermost pocket of his tunic, he pulled out a shining silver pin.

The sigil of a wolf.

He thumbed over the pin while the wolf of the man who had owned it wailed in mourning. Louis clasped the pin in his hand until it left an imprint and let himself mourn too. The sigil’s mark would fade from his skin, but the memory of green eyes and a tender heart never would. He stowed the token away and snapped the reigns to get his horse moving faster to catch up.

 

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

 

Days later, when they reached the battle camp of Tywin Lannister, Louis had resigned himself to his fate. But he would carry the North in his heart, just as he would in his pocket. It gave him the strength to face the man that had given him his infamous moniker.

“Were you successful?” his father asked after calling Louis to a private audience in his tent. He was skinning a dead stag with a bloody knife, ripping and tearing brutally at the hide.

“Yes, Father,” Louis said quietly, eyes inclined down.

“Tell me what you know.”

No welcome home. No endearments. No worry if he was alright. Just business, as it always was when the mighty Tywin Lannister sent his youngest son off to do his dirty work.

Louis told him what he knew, what he had learned during his time in Winterfell. With each surrendered piece of knowledge, Tywin looked more like a man who had already claimed victory, and Louis felt more sick.

When his father was satisfied he had sufficiently exploited Louis, he afforded his son a rare smile, although his focus was still on the bleeding buck. “You know...you’re not a fighter like Jamie, or ruthless like Cersei, or conniving like Tyrion, but you do find ways to make yourself useful sometimes. You might yet prove to be less a disappointment than I had always thought. For a bastard, at least.”

 Louis nodded. “Yes, Father. Thank you, Father. I’ll never be worthy of the Lannister name.”

 “No. You won’t. But you’ll keep claiming it for the sake of this family. Lannisters are pure, in life and in death. At least that’s what everyone will believe.”

“But...but I thought the Lion never concerns himself with the opinions of the sheep?” Louis dared to ask.

“Well, you aren’t a lion. So it’s none of _your_ concern, is it?”

“No. It’s not.” Louis bit at his lip and then asked the question that had been gnawing at him since he’d read the stolen scroll in Winterfell. “How is Jamie?”

His father shook his head. “He’s alive. We know that much. We’ll have him back in our control soon enough. We have Sansa Stark. Lady Catelyn will be willing to make a deal to get her daughter back, especially now that their patriarch has been executed.”

Louis’ eyes widened. “What?” A tidal wave of nausea rolled through his stomach at the thought of what that would mean for the war...what it would mean for the man who had been left behind at Winterfell when the crusade south had begun.

“King Joffrey’s command,” Tywin said. “It sends a message. The same one that we’ll send when we wipe out Ned Stark’s son’s army and take back our own blood.” He drove his knife into the table. The dull sound of metal meeting wood made Louis wince. “It's a shame. It would have been easier if it was _you_ the Starks had taken. Would have saved me what I’m sure will be many lost soldiers.”

Louis closed his eyes. “I wish it would have been me too.” 

Tywin Lannister didn't hear it. He was too busy carving his kill and planning the next one.

His father was about to dismiss him when he suddenly stopped, another thought occurring, one that might complicate his plans. “What about the Snow boy?” he asked, finally looking away from his task to eye Louis. “You didn’t mention him. Should we have him dealt with? Is he a threat?”

Louis buried his hand into his pocket and touched the sigil pin. “No. He’s no threat. He’ll go to the Wall. He’ll live out his days there watching the snow fall until he rots. You have nothing to worry about from the Stark bastard. We bastards never amount to anything, right?” 

His father hummed. “Right. Now run along. I’ve got matters to discuss with the council about what to do with the damned Targaryen descendents to the East. The younger brother is of no consequence, but the sister? She’s going to cause trouble.” He waved his bloody hand at Louis, taking the knife back up to finish skinning his prize. “Go find some cock to suck...or some such revulsion. You’re good at that. Bring me back whatever you find out when you’re done. Just don’t tell them your name.”

“No. Never,” Louis said. “I never do.”

When he was back in his own tent, Louis immediately threw off his Lannister red, disgusted by it. From his trunk, he dug out the furs that he had stowed away after being escorted into the camp and forced to change his colors. The furs were soft beneath his fingers and still smelled of pine...of Harry.

Louis crawled into his makeshift cot with them, the sounds of battle preparations clanging around the tent, but Louis was miles away in his mind. He buried his face in the soft fur and breathed deep.

Someday.

Someday, they would meet again. And hopefully when that happened Louis would be free. They would meet as equals. Friends instead of foes. Allies instead of enemies. It had never been plausible before, a bond between two of the most opposed sigils in Westerosi history.

The lion and the wolf.

Then again, neither of them were really who they said they were. Not fully. Not legitimately. So they would have to be something else. And maybe that was more important than the fate of the Realm.

 Quite a pair.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Happy Cocktober everyone!
> 
> More to come...Dracarys!


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